I sit down to a blank page at one in the morning. Like any self-respecting teen I have put off my assignment for as long as possible. I have ten hours to hammer out a gem about my interviewee, Camil Bouchikhi. As I began my final interview with Camil (I’ll admit, however shamefully, over an I.M.), I soon realized that I have nothing to worry about. His literary genius shines through even in his brief responses to my mediocre questions, and I know from his first response his replies will nearly do my job for me. I can easily fill ten pages with his incredibly thoughtful quotes, stitched together with the excruciating clarity that comes only with the balanced concoction of charisma and confidence that Bouchikhi seems to exude ceaselessly, much less one.
The be-bop of the messenger causes my heart to jump a beat. Finally. Midnight and my interview is just beginning to take form. Frantically racking my mind for anything to jumpstart my Parisian pal’s memory, I ask him about his native France. “I usually travel with my family, so I guess [when I’m gone] I most miss bike riding to my favorite ‘boulangerie’ on a sunday morning to get two fresh, ‘traditional’ baguettes. Once home, my parents come downstairs only half awake and we just solemnly rip that steamy bread open and savor the salty, buttery taste of a hot artisanal baguette. I'm not quite sure what I prefer [most] about those sunday mornings: the silence, or the food.” I’m stunned, utterly amazed at the mature, raw sincerity of Bouchikhi’s response. What can I say to this? How the hell can I reply with half the grace and fluidity of my counterpart? After all, I don’t want to appear completely incompetent; though, even if I did come across as so Bouchikhi would only curl one side of his mouth in an encouraging grin- a demonstration of charismatic charm that I now come to associate almost exclusively with Bouchikhi, a charm that makes it nearly impossible for one to feel uncomfortable.
Bouchikhi is forgiving, gracious, and patient as I stumble awkwardly over my rushed and ill-prepared questions. “I would (and am) say(ing) that I’m surprised by the tolerance at this camp. People of very different backgrounds with very different tastes all finely get along and support each other. Some young writers have revealed very intimate information about themselves. I both respect their great trust in the other campers, and the general supportive reaction to those forum reader's revelations. This camp really is a peace harbor free of the year-long torment some kids have to endure,” says Bouchikhi as he elaborates on his views of Duke Young Writers’ Camp so far. I’m taken off guard. Such an eloquent quote can’t be the result of a question I posed, I assure you. However, I quickly recover. At this point, I don’t care if the Lucky Charms Leprechaun is asking the questions as long as I’m kept supplied with this journalistic gold.
We begin to talk of that beaten-to-death-horse: inspiration. Dabbling briefly in the modernists, post-modernists, existentialists (the French do love their artistes’ ), Bouchikhi tosses me another perfect pitch, and this time, I’m prepared for it. I’m going to pop this S.O.B. straight out of the park. “There isn't any particular writer that I admire especially, I just try to recycle whatever marked me in anything I read, from Hemingway’s [works] to soap dispenser notices.” And after reading some of his finer pieces, it is evident that such an eclectic and unique style can only come from this methodical gleaming of whatever words seem to catch his eye.
After speaking with Bouchikhi I’m left with a sense of awe and euphoria, despite my unpreparedness this casual back and forth has left me with an opportunity to share the philosophical musings of this kid’s fantastic mind. I’m excited, I’m charged to write this piece. The conversation tapers off. We laugh, tell vulgar jokes to close- an art pubescent boys seem to have mastered magnificently, wish each other a night of restfulness, and I open a fresh word document.